upright tails and sacred bulls
alternately—
in four tiers
lining the way to an old altar!
Natives digging at old walls—
digging me warmth—digging me
sweet loneliness—
high enamelled walls.
IV
My second spring—
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls—in Fiesole
on the hill above Florence.
My second spring—painted
a virgin—in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed—
she is intently serious,
and still
watching an angel
with coloured wings
half kneeling before her—
and smiling—the angel's eyes
holding the eyes of Mary
as a snake's holds a bird's.
On the ground there are flowers,
trees are in leaf.
V
But! now for the battle!
Now for murder—now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
[14]
